Spit It Out
by Rackson Jippner
Summary: Written from his jail cell, Rippner's account of what really happened while on the airplane and well after it landed. Based on the song Spit It Out by IAMX; lyrics property of Chris Corner.


_I will replace the noise with silence instead_

_Flushing out your head_

No one knows me. No one knows a god damn thing about me even though they like to assume they do. My parents never knew me, my aunts, uncles – no one. The reader of this account, for example, will be just as confused as I am by the story that I'm about to recall. But everyone else should take this as just a grain of salt; whatever I tell people, whatever words flow from my mouth shouldn't be believed by anyone only because I just simply _cannot be trusted_. And it's unfortunate how I'm only beginning to understand that, years after coming in contact with the law the very first time around.

The sad part, though, is that I don't regret a thing I've done. Not _one single thing_. Everything that I have ever accomplished in my short life, what I believe I loved for, all had some sort of purpose, or at least I thought at the time it did. Every course of action I have ever took, up until two months ago, has had some sort of meaning, and even if it was fucking _pathetic_, I understood it.

I've never been one to necessarily express myself up until now, only because I feel that this is all something I have to get out. It aches, burns, it _kills_ me on the inside only because I've kept it in for so fucking long. Yes, of course my motive the first time around was to cause as much destruction as I could; terrorize any part of Lisa I fucking could just so I could have her as my own property, my _own_ flesh and blood. And who knows? Maybe I _did_ love her, whatever the hell love is. I couldn't tell you what love was in the same sense that I can't prove heaven or hell. She had a nice body I wanted to touch; the way I wanted to rip that navy blue skirt off and that pale pink shirt; just fucking _thinking_ about it makes me hard, I can't even explain.

Unfortunately, those days are long gone and of course, just like everything else that ahs ever happened, it's all my fault. I'll sit here and take the blame, but it's not like I'm going to beg for mercy anytime soon. I have no interest, and quite frankly I feel I don't have to, especially not if you know that what you've done has some sort of purpose. Who knows? Maybe down the line this will all benefit someone else. Maybe somewhere down the line, someone will learn not to be as fucking _stupid_ as I have simply because none of this was worth it. Yeah, it could have all been handled in a different fashion but I've never been one to exactly think before acting. Explains, in a nutshell, why my parents are dead.

The funny thing, though, is that killing has never been in my blood. Actually, my parents were quite decent, allowed me to do whatever the fuck I wanted (up until I skinned the cat and attempted to throw her out the window). Up until then they had no objections; they wanted whatever was best for their little boy, and of course I disobeyed them until there was just not much more they could. Never once did they consider mental help; never once did they think it was a behavioral issue. They thought it was a phase and that I would grow out of it.

That was, until I found my father's gun underneath his bed. The rest is history, and it's a history I would rather not get into.

Unfortunately, I don't know many who will believe this account of events that have happened during my time with Lisa, though. I'm just a criminal; the courts, the cops… they don't care for what someone in my state has to say. After about three mental status exams, blood tests, along with other examinations I don't even know the names of, everyone in this fucking hell hole is _still_ unable to tell just what is wrong with little old me. But, that's quite all right because I know damn well everything is peachy-keen, one hundred percent functional.

I don't want the reader to view this as a bunch of journal entries or a diary of any sort. Think of it more as… a story, if you will. Everything in this notebook will be written when I feel like writing it, whether it be a week since this first account, a month, maybe even a year (considering I just might have a lifetime in this pathetic excuse for a jailhouse).

Just like I stated in the beginning, though: do _not_ even think about taking anything in this account seriously. Read at your own risk, read only when you feel like it. But most of all? Don't even think about judging me for my thoughts, or for the words written on these blue lines. Don't even dare.


End file.
